


How To Care For Your Red-Eyed Tree Frog

by run_sure_footed



Series: Before Kipo [5]
Category: Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts (Cartoon)
Genre: Anxiety, Body Euphoria, Breathplay, Choking Kink, Cloaca, Fingering, M/M, Non-Human Genitalia, Paranoia, Penetration, health scare, morbid assumptions, non-mammalian genitalia, red eyed tree frogs vs native Californian frogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:28:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26397154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/run_sure_footed/pseuds/run_sure_footed
Summary: Sometimes it's hard being the only red eyed Frog at the Pond.
Relationships: Harris/Jamack (Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts)
Series: Before Kipo [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878325
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	How To Care For Your Red-Eyed Tree Frog

Jamack was already mostly naked by the time Harris set his bat down in the back of the car and started taking off his tie. He watched Harris unbutton his suit and shirt, shrugging them off and turning to fold them neatly on the front seat. Jamack frowned, carelessly dropping his own shirt on the hood of the car and stepping in close to touch Harris’ back.

Harris startled slightly. He didn’t think he’d ever really get used to this whole ‘being touched’ thing. It was hard to overcome a lifetime of learning that anyone who got that close probably wanted to hurt him. He shook his head in reluctant fondness. “What? We do that _after_ , remember?”

“Does this hurt?” Jamack asked, tenderly putting pressure on a part of Harris’ back.

“…No. Should it?” Harris was getting restless and exasperated. He hadn’t come here for tender touches or conversation. Well, maybe he _had_ , but not until he’d cum and taken the edge off his…whatever they were doing together.

“You’re turning brown,” Jamack said, clearly concerned.

“ _You’re_ turning brown!” Harris retorted. It was juvenile, but it was his go-to response when Jamack said something especially…Jamackish. But Jamack didn’t sound playful or teasing. He sounded worried. Almost scared.

Harris tipped his head slightly so he could see down his own back. He froze. There, just beneath Jamack’s hand, was a patch of green-brown skin. It shouldn’t be brown. It should be solid green. He felt sick. He leaned forward, away from Jamack, shaking his head. He reached out and grabbed his shirt, balling it in his hands, but didn’t put it on.

“Can you feel it at all?” Jamack had never seen this kind of colour change on any Frog before. But, of course, there was only one Frog with red eyes in the Pond, so there was really no way of knowing if this was normal or not.

“I mean, I can _feel_ your fingers,” Harris said slowly. “It doesn’t hurt or anything, if that’s what you mean. It just feels like normal skin. Does it feel different? To you, I mean?”

“It doesn’t feel any different to me.”

Fuck. Harris should have known there’d be some sort of consequence for taking up with Jamack like this. Would his skin start thickening and becoming rougher, like Jamack’s? Had there been other red-eyed Mod Frogs in the past, but their skins had simply been swallowed by brown, followed by their eyes? No. That didn’t make sense. Jamack was green, just as green as Harris was on most of his body. Jamack wasn’t brown.

Or…

“Turn around!” he demanded, rising to his feet.

Frowning, Jamack did as ordered. “Do I… Am _I_ turning brown?!” His field of vision wasn’t as wide as Harris’ and he couldn’t see his own back.

Harris quickly circled him, examining every inch of his skin carefully. He straightened with a relieved sigh. “Not as far as I can tell. What about me? What about the rest of me?” He turned in a slow circle.

“No, just that one patch.” Jamack resisted the urge to reach out and touch it again. He had a feeling Harris wasn’t going to be in the mood anymore, but he tried to hide his disappointment. “Do you want to see the medic about it?”

“No!” Harris clapped a hand over Jamack’s mouth. “No,” he said again, lowering his voice. “What if it’s contagious? They might make me leave the Pond. We’ll just, uh, monitor the situation. See if anything changes. If it spreads or starts hurting?”

Jamack nodded, gently peeling Harris’ hand off his mouth. “Ok. We’ll keep an eye on it.” It hadn’t occurred to him that it might be contagious. He felt the urge to scrub his hand clean.

“Good. Good. We’ve got this.” Harris took a deep breath and unbunched his shirt from where he’d been squeezing it in his arms. He made a face. It was all creased and damp. He’d need to wash and press it before he was presentable again, but he’d need to return to the Pond to do that. He’d just have to hope his tie and the collar of his jacket covered the worst of it.

“I see what you’re doing with your hand,” he said coolly. “Nice.”

Jamack stopped shaking his hand with a guilty grin. “ _You_ ’re the one who said it might be contagious.” He really didn’t think it was…but he didn’t know what it _was_ , either. He sighed, grabbed his own shirt and jacket, and got dressed again. They’d finish their patrol and head home.

Harris thought about apologizing because their planned night of fun was over before they’d started, but really, it was _Jamack’s_ fault.

He could have at least waited until they’d gotten off.

*

“Hey, Jamack, could I see you about…that thing?” Not the most subtle, but then Harris wasn’t known for his subtlty at the best of times. He was far too anxious to attempt it now.

He didn’t feel like sex—he’d felt like he might throw up most of the day—but he did want Jamack to check the brown patch on his back to see if it had spread. Harris could see his own back fairly well. It looked larger to him, but he wanted a second opinion.

Jamack nodded, leading the way.

There were only a few reasons for Mod Frogs to be alone, and only a few places for them to be alone as a pair, but they could get away with it. Having another Mod Frog in your personal burrow was unheard of, but there were quiet and semi-private places to read and make reports about patrolling and other paperwork, and Jamack knew they would likely be empty at this time. It was rare that anyone actually _read_ the reports unless they were important, and writing them was usually done right after patrol. No one would be back for hours.

As soon as they were tucked away in a quiet, dry room at the top of one of the public buildings, Jamack shut the door and blocked it with his body. “Let me see.”

Harris unbuttoned his jacket and shirt in record time, even more quickly than when he was horny and waiting for Jamack’s hands on him. He turned and bent over to give Jamack the best possible view, then froze. He’d never been this afraid.

Well. That wasn’t entirely true. He _had_ been this afraid, but not for years. Not since he’d broken the leg of the last Frog who thought he’d be an easy target because he was small and weak. He hadn’t missed the feeling.

Dying in combat was one thing, a _glorious_ thing, but this? His skin slowly turning brown before…what? Peeling off? Rotting? It was an _unknown_ , and far more frightening than a good, quick death.

Jamack let out a little croak. “It’s really spreading,” he said softly. It almost covered Harris’ entire back now, and where it had reached his stripes, the colour seemed to have dulled to a brownish yellow and muted blue. Again, he wondered if this could _only_ happen to Harris, if this was just a part of being…whatever kind of Frog he was. Maybe it was like when they were just froglets and Harris’ eyes had changed from amber to red over the course of a week. They’d both been afraid at the time, but the medic couldn’t find anything wrong and eventually it became apparent that it was just the way Frogs like Harris looked. Other kinds of Frog mutes weren’t allowed to join the Mod Frogs, but they’d been known to leave their eggs in the Pond, hoping to ensure their Froglets’ survival. Harris had always been different. Even as a Tadpole it was obvious he wasn’t the same as the rest of them.

Jamack silently cursed their lack of knowledge surrounding Harris.

Harris huffed softly. “What do we do?” There were really only two options—tell Kwat, or tell the medic. Neither appealed to him. What else could they— _he_ , he reminded himself. This was _his_ problem, not Jamack’s. Things had already gotten too muddy between them.

What else could he do? Wait?

It was just a pity he and Jamack hadn’t been able to do this even a few more times, a pity that he had called it off twice, wasted their time together.

Jamack had narrowed it down to the same two options, but he’d also formed another plan. “Let’s tell Kwat,” he suggested.

“Really?” Harris felt like a Froglet again. Had, he realized, since Jamack had first found the brown patch on his back. He hated that feeling. Small and helpless and always looking at Jamack and Kwat for what to do. He smirked. Well, he was taller than Jamack now, even if he was much skinnier.

“If she doesn’t know what to do, then I have an idea,” Jamack said. “And whatever it is, she’ll keep it a secret.”

Harris grimaced. “Why don’t we just go straight to your idea?” Kwat had gotten them out of trouble more times than he could count, but he’d just as soon leave her out of it entirely if at all possible. Especially because he’d probably caught it—whatever _it_ was—from sex with Jamack. He definitely didn’t want to talk about _that_ with Kwat!

“I’ll have to take a dragonfly, and it might take me awhile.” Jamack didn’t want Harris to be alone right now. He was afraid enough.

“That. Let’s do that.”

“Fine.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

“No, just me. You stay here and rest. The dragonfly will be faster with just me, anyways.”

“What? No! I’m not just sitting around here and… While you go flying off doing…whatever you’re doing! I don’t need _rest_. I’m not a Tadpole, Jamack. I feel fine!” And he did. Mostly. He thought. He couldn’t really tell anymore.

“I don’t even know if this will work. I don’t want to get your hopes up. Plus, we don’t both need to get in trouble for stealing a dragonfly. Just go spend time with Kwat. You don’t even have to tell her about it. I won’t be long.”

“How long?” Harris grumbled.

“I don’t know. Hopefully less than an hour.” Jamack had a vague idea of where he could find what he was looking for, but not an exact location.

Harris’ shoulders slumped. “Fine. Be quick. And if this doesn’t work…” He mimed swinging his bat with one hand. He knew better than to ask Jamack to explain himself. Once Jamack had made up his mind to be mysterious, there was no changing it.

Jamack hesitated for a moment before giving Harris’ hand a quick squeeze. He turned and left without a word, not sure if Harris appreciated that gesture and not waiting to find out.

He knew he’d get chewed out for borrowing a dragonfly for what he was going to call a joyride once he was caught, since there was no way he was going to tell anyone what he was really up to, so hopefully it would be worth it.

He flew into the ruins of downtown Las Vistas, fighting down his worries the entire time.

*

Harris wasn’t sure if he’d intended to actually go spend time with Kwat, but he didn’t. He thought about retreating to his bed, but he wasn’t tired and he didn’t want to sleep and possibly miss Jamack’s return. Besides… Even if he didn’t want to go to Kwat and let her silence bully him into talking, he didn’t want to be alone.

Instead, he turned towards the range and obstacle course. Both had been mandatory for Froglets and young Frogs before they were accepted and given their first ties, but they were open to fully fledged Mod Frogs as well. He doubted there would be many Frogs at either place at this time of day, but he didn’t think it would be completely empty, either. Perfect.

There were a few other Frogs standing in front of the targets placed at varying distances, and it looked like the obstacle course was completely empty.

He fired his tongue a few times, but he was distracted and sloppy and kept missing. After he nearly hit the Frog in the lane next to his, receiving a potent glare in exchange, he decided doing something a bit more physical might help.

He turned over the small hourglass at the beginning of the obstacle course, pumping air deep into his lungs before launching himself at a horizontal pipe a few metres away. His tongue caught and he swung out, perfectly in line for the next platform. He grinned. He _was_ fine, just like he’d told Jamack. Nothing to worry about. Let Jamack waste his afternoon running around the city. He could have fun by himself.

He’d made it to the midpoint of the course. His tongue was wrapped around the next bar. He was in mid-swing when his back—his back, right where the brown patch was, he just knew it—spasmed. Startled, he released his tongue and nearly fell into the mud pit beneath the bar. He managed to catch himself at the last second and haul himself onto the platform, but he’d badly scuffed his shoe—nearly lost the other, and wouldn’t _that_ have been a delight?—and scraped his knuckles. Jamack would probably freak out about that when he got back.

He groaned. His back still felt…strange.

He’d had enough exercise for one day. Instead of finishing, he climbed down the ladder on the back of the platform until he was on solid ground.

He still wasn’t tired, not exactly, but he decided that retreating to his bed was the best choice after all. He squeezed in through the tiny opening. It was too small for most adult Mod Frogs to enter, and intentionally so. Even if someone did come across his burrow, they’d have to dig to get at him and he was sure he would wake up before they made the opening big enough. Then he’d either be able to slip away, or he’d at least be awake when he died.

He curled up on his nest of leaves and precious moss. He’d found that if he wet the moss before he fell asleep, his skin was less dry and tearable in the morning.

He folded himself up into his sleeping position—arms and legs close and curled against his body, laying on his belly—and closed his eyes. His back was throbbing. He rolled onto it, rubbing and scratching it on the cool moss. He was certain he could _feel_ the brown patch spreading.

Was he dying? It seemed like the most obvious explanation. Sure, he looked different than all the other Frogs, but not _that_ different. He’d never seen or heard of another Frog with this particular problem, which probably meant they’d done exactly what he was doing—crawled off somewhere to hide and died alone, only no one else had seen their skin, because they were good, proper Mod Frogs who didn’t get naked in front of anyone.

He sighed, throwing his arms and legs out as far as they would go in his tiny bedchamber.

Jamack.

It was too bad that he was going to die here alone and no one would find his body until the Pond expanded and someone dug a new burrow here, or there was a flood, or something. Too bad Jamack would never know what had really happened to him. It was a strange feeling— _he_ felt bad, because he didn’t want _Jamack_ to feel bad. Somehow, the thought of hurting Jamack hurt him. It didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t escape the feeling.

He groaned and rolled over, tucking himself up again. He cared about Jamack. A lot. As more than a colleague. He liked having sex with him, and not as a business transaction.

He was so fucked.

It was a _good_ thing he was dying.

*

Jamack got exactly the amount of reprimanding he’d expected upon returning his dragonfly. He brushed it off as best he could, though he hated to think it might impact his position. He’d worked so hard to be allowed his little office in the waterfall, to be able to patrol wherever he wanted, with Harris and often Kwat at his side. He didn’t want to lose that.

But it was worth it for what he’d found.

He checked with Kwat first, and was told that Harris hadn’t been by to see her. He went to a few of Harris’ usual spots before heading to his burrow. He knew where Harris slept, despite Harris’ secrecy. He knew where a _lot_ of the Mod Frogs slept, to be fair. He was an observant Frog, but he usually had no reason to use that information. Except maybe a little theft, now and then, when he was sure he could get away with it.

Now he crept to the little opening of Harris’ burrow and sat outside, speaking softly so as not to attract any more attention. “Harris, I found what I was looking for. Come out.”

Harris uncurled just enough to cover his tympana with his hands. This had to be some sort of pre-death delirium, and he wasn’t falling for it.

“Get out here.” Jamack was starting to get annoyed. “Don’t make me dig you out.”

Harris snorted. Not even his hallucination-Jamack would do that.

Of course Jamack didn’t actually intend to dig Harris out. “Do you want to see what I brought or not? I spent a good hour looking, got stung by one of those damn bees, _and_ got yelled at for stealing a dragonfly. Get out here and _appreciate_ what I did for you.”

Harris groaned. If imaginary-Jamack kept this up, the other Mod Frogs would notice. He uncurled, wincing as the movement pulled the skin on his back, and crept out of his bed-nest. “What?” He straightened with as much dignity as he could muster, hands on his hips, frowning at Jamack.

Jamack grinned at him, waving a thin little book in his face. “Come back up to ‘read reports' with me.” He winked, tugging Harris along until they were within view of other Mod Frogs, then releasing him to let him follow with a little more dignity. As soon as they were alone again, Jamack put the book down on the table.

The front of the book had a picture of a bright-green frog with red eyes and striped sides, and the title read _How to Care for Your Red-Eyed Tree Frog_.

Harris’ mouth fell open, and his gaze flicked between the book and Jamack with equal incomprehension.

Jamack snickered at his expression. “I guess before I say anything else I should let you know that red-eyed tree frogs can change colour from green to brown and back and still be perfectly healthy. I’d kind of thought, well…whatever kind of frogs most of us came from, you’re a different kind. And I guessed that maybe you weren’t native to the area. And why would there be a non-native frog here?” He grinned again. “You’re descended from pet frogs. I dug this out of an old pet store.”

Harris’ mouth opened even wider. It was so much to take in. Too much. He tried to focus on one thing at a time. The most important thing first, obviously, but what was that? He was torn, but finally decided on, “…Perfectly healthy?”

“Yeah.” Jamack’s smirk subsided into a smile briefly. “You’re fine. And there’s a lot more about you, stuff I’m guessing you didn’t know either.”

“You read it already?”

“Yeah. If it hadn’t said anything about you turning brown I would have had to keep looking.” He had, admittedly, gotten a little sucked into the book. It described things about Harris in a way he’d never thought of. That his eyes and brightly coloured stripes were meant to startle predators, his golden eyelids were part of his camouflage, and his sticky orange hands and feet, with so little webbing, were meant for climbing and not swimming. “I guess there’s a reason you can’t swim worth a damn. Red eyed tree frogs can actually _drown_. I thought you could breathe underwater like the rest of us.”

“I can swim just fine!” Harris protested, crossing his arms. He could see thoughts drifting through Jamack’s mind, thoughts about _him_ , and he didn’t like it.

“I’ve seen you swim,” Jamack retorted. He’d actually had to fish Harris out of the Pond a couple of times early on, when they had recently lost their gills and tails and were learning how to swim with arms and legs.

“…You can breathe underwater?” Harris asked, very softly. It wasn’t good to admit to weakness or ignorance, and this was both, but he had so many burning questions! And it was _Jamack_ , after all. Jamack had never used anything against him, not in a way that counted, and he’d had plenty of opportunities.

“Yeah. Not the way we’re breathing now, just through my skin. I’ve stayed underwater for more than an hour before.” Jamack wasn’t sure what the limits were, but he’d heard of Frogs staying under much longer. If he’d known that Harris would have actually _drowned_ , he would have fished him out with a bit more urgency in the past.

Harris turned away from Jamack and touched the book in front of them almost cautiously. It was clearly old. It had gotten wet and dried many times. Some pages were swollen and covered in black or pale-blue mildew. He was surprised Jamack had been able to get _that_ much information out of it, honestly. It was possible Jamack was making up at least some of it, but he didn’t think so. Not today.

“Hey, what happened to your hand?”

Of course he’d noticed. Just as Harris had expected. He covered his injured knuckles with his other hand. “Nothing. Humans wrote this?”

Jamack frowned as Harris tried to distract him from his injury, but he let it go. It was minor. “Must have. Frogs weren’t exactly writing books back whenever this was published.”

“What, like we’re writing books now?” Harris snorted to cover up his sudden, creeping horror. He shuddered and pushed the book away. He didn’t like that thought, of humans describing him, knowing more about him than he knew about himself. Especially to keep him…his ancestors, anyway, as _pets_. “Why am I turning brown, then?” he asked, suddenly desperate to change the topic and wishing he hadn’t asked in the first place. “Is it because I… Because we…?”

“It didn’t say,” Jamack said. “Just that it was normal. Maybe even they didn’t know.” He shrugged. He looked down at the book, not meeting Harris’ eyes for a moment, knowing the other Frog felt uncomfortable right now. “Are you ok?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?” Harris snapped. He quickly sighed and held up a hand. He hadn’t meant to take out his…whatever he was feeling…on Jamack, or reveal how upset he was. Although, again, if there was anyone he could be upset around safely…

“What do you think _tree_ frog means?” he asked, but he still couldn’t bring himself to look at the horrible rotting book.

Jamack, having already read most of the book, was happy to offer, “Why don’t we go to my office on our patrol tomorrow and I’ll show you?”

Harris swallowed hard, then nodded. “Can you hide this there?” He jerked his head at the book without looking at it. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He could see almost the entire room without turning his head, but he didn’t _focus_ on the book. The stupid thing probably explained more about his eyes and how they were different than every other fucking frog, but he didn’t care enough to read it or ask Jamack.

“Of course.” Jamack picked it up and tucked it into his suit jacket. It was getting late, and it had been a tiring day. “I’ll keep it safe. I’m going to bed.”

Harris managed a faint grin. “Do I need to dig myself a new burrow?” he asked, giving Jamack a level stare.

“No,” Jamack assured him, returning Harris’ stare, challenging him to say anything more about it.

Harris nodded silently, then turned and left, making his way to his burrow. He couldn’t stop thinking about the stupid book. He wanted to know what else it had to say about ‘him,’ but he also never wanted to see it again.

On the bright side, he had no doubt Jamack would eventually tell him everything he read in it.

On that thought, he finally managed to fall asleep.

*

Grimacing, Harris stared up at the waterfall leading to Jamack’s ‘office.’ He’d only been inside once, and he’d nearly died getting there. He hadn’t known that he _couldn’t_ swim, and Jamack had assumed he’d been able to breathe underwater. Fuck.

Jamack was grinning again. He fully intended to get up the way he normally did, swimming through the flooded inside of the building, but he knew that Harris now had another option.

He led him as close as they could get to the base of the giant tree that had swallowed his office building, holding it steady in the huge waterfall. The tree reached from the top of the waterfall to the bottom, and now that he knew Harris was a _tree_ Frog, well, he was pretty sure this would work. “You’re going to climb up. I’ll swim and meet you up there.”

“Climb up?” Harris asked, hoping he sounded more incredulous than nervous. It was a long way up, and everything was soaked with mist from the waterfall.

“Yeah. You know how you asked what a tree frog was? They climb. Just try it.” Jamack didn’t plan to start swimming up until he was sure Harris would be able to make it. He wanted to see if he could do it, and make sure that he’d be safe.

Harris stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide if Jamack was fucking with him. He didn’t have his—rather obvious, honestly— _I’m fucking with you_ expression. He looked…excited. For Harris.

One of the tree’s roots draped down the side of Jamack’s office building and touched the fallen tower beneath it. Harris stepped closer to it. At first he was simply walking, which was difficult on the wet wood. The root turned sharply upwards. Harris closed his eyes, reached up, and pressed a hand against it. His hand stuck. He lifted his feet. He was now hanging from one hand. He slapped his other hand slightly above it, his chest heaving with excitement of his own now. But how to climb higher? He looked down at Jamack, who was beaming and clearly doing his very best not to shout or say anything. He looked down the length of his body. Something… Aha!

“Jamack! Catch!” He kicked off one of his shoes, made sure Jamack had grabbed it, then sent the other tumbling after it.

He pressed one of his bare feet against the tree. It, just like his hands, stuck. And then, just like that, he was _climbing_. Straight up. Clinging to wet wood like he was walking on a lilypad, it was just that easy. Even easier, maybe. His legs, his spine, engaged in a way they never had before. This, this was how he was _meant_ to move.

He was up to Jamack’s office itself before he knew it. He realized he’d actually climbed past it in his hurry. He hopped down through the window. Jamack wasn’t even there yet. He’d beaten him to the top!

He was breathing heavily, and his muscles ached, but in a good way. It was like he’d been crawling his whole life and now he could run.

A sobering thought occurred to him, bringing him down a little. He sat on Jamack’s desk to wait.

There was no way he could do this in front of the other Mod Frogs. Even removing his shoes was a huge breach of etiquette. He had this new power, this new energy, and he’d have to keep it to himself.

Still. He could do it in secret. And he could do it around Jamack when it was just the two of them.

Jamack made it up a minute later, Harris’ shoes in his hand. He was still grinning. “If I hadn’t just seen it, I don’t think I would have believed it,” he chuckled, setting Harris’ shoes down on his desk, sitting next to Harris.

Letting the joy of the climb and how much he owed Jamack take over, Harris threw his arms around the other Frog, climbed into his lap, then wrapped his thin legs—climber’s legs!—around Jamack’s middle.

“Oh, is _that_ how it is?” Jamack teased, laughing.

“Shut up.” Harris plucked his shoes from Jamack’s desk and set them on a lily pad for safekeeping, and then he was unbuttoning his coat and his shirt and Jamack’s pants and any button that came within reach of his sticky, _wonderful_ hands.

Jamack helped him undress them both, barely bothering to leave their clothing neat and tidy before getting his hands back on Harris’ skin. He pressed his lips to Harris’ chest, shoulder, sides, exploring him eagerly. Harris’ enthusiasm was catching.

Regaining a brief moment of clarity, Harris pulled back enough to draw in a deep breath. “I’m only doing this because I owe you,” he said firmly.

“Just shut up and enjoy it,” Jamack groaned, wrapping his fingers around Harris’ neck and squeezing tightly. No matter what he said, it was obvious Harris was excited; his cloaca had already parted around his growing erection. Jamack’s wasn’t quite there yet, but it wouldn’t be long.

Relieved that the choice had been taken from him, Harris managed a feeble nod before surrendering himself to Jamack. His hands fell limp at his sides as soon as Jamack applied pressure, his legs collapsing on either side of him. Jamack’s face was right above him, grinning like an idiot. Harris couldn’t help grinning back, his mouth slightly parted as Jamack tightened his grip.

Jamack kept one hand on Harris’ throat, and the other slid down to explore his erection, stroking him with slow, deliberate motions. He loved the feel of Harris, loved seeing this secret part of him, this open eagerness. His erection was longer than Jamack’s, but more slender, it fit nicely in his hand, slick enough to glide over his skin. After a few strokes, he let his fingers hesitate at the base of his erection, pressing gently against the opening of his cloaca.

Harris whined, canting his hips forward and up to meet Jamack’s fingers. He wasn’t sure what he was asking for, what he wanted, what Jamack was offering, but he’d never wanted anything so badly in his life.

His partner seemed just as eager as before, and Jamack pressed on. He let his fingers follow the base of Harris’ erection inwards, where it met his body and opened into his cloaca. Harris’ cloaca spread around his fingers and just the sensation of his muscles squeezing tighter brought Jamack to full mast.

“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, what are you _doing_?” Harris moaned, lifting his head and staring up at Jamack, his eyes even wider than normal.

Jamack slid his fingers out and then back in, still moving slowly. He grinned. “You’ve never done this?”

“I don’t know what you’re doing to know if I’ve done it!”

“I’m fucking you,” Jamack said with a low chuckle.

“You’re _what_?” Fuck, it felt so good. Jamack’s words didn’t make sense, or at least didn’t matter.

“I’ve got my fingers in you.” Jamack curled them slightly, stroking the silky tight slickness inside Harris.

“Oh. Ohhh!” Harris gasped, lying back.

Jamack took his other hand away from Harris’ throat, letting it wrap around his erection instead, stroking slowly in time with his careful, exploratory thrusts.

This time Harris whimpered, shaking his head.

Jamack stilled. “Which part?” He wasn’t sure what Harris was protesting.

Harris tipped his head back, offering his pale throat but looking past Jamack.

“Oh,” he laughed. “I can do that.” He put his fingers back around Harris’ throat, tight enough to feel his pulse pumping hard against his fingertips. He continued his almost delicate motions, pulling his fingers all the way out and up to the base of Harris’ erection, before slipping them back inside. “Why don’t you stroke yourself?”

A long shiver ran down Harris’ spine and he closed his eyes. It took a little fumbling to get his hand between Jamack’s legs, but then his fingers were around his slick erection and…and he could _feel_ Jamack’s fingers disappearing into him. It was absolutely perverse, and he never wanted it to end. He began stroking himself in a flurried, uncoordinated way. He knew he wouldn’t last long, not like this, but he couldn’t tell Jamack that with Jamack’s hand around his throat. He bucked up against that grip, just a little, only to feel Jamack tighten his fingers in response. That was enough to tip him over the edge, and then he was coming with a ragged yell with Jamack’s fingers in him and and his fingers around his throat while his own hand flew up and down his erection.

That was the fastest Jamack had ever made Harris cum and he couldn’t help but feel victorious. He felt Harris’ muscles clamp down on him as he came, cum dribbling down over his fingers and into his palm. He grinned, releasing Harris’ neck and slowly pulling his fingertips out of his cloaca. “Looks like you enjoyed that.”

All Harris could do was frown up at him, unable to respond. He felt utterly limp, wrung out. He’d never been this exhausted or this ecstatic in his life. He couldn’t let Jamack know any of that, of course.

Jamack just chuckled, lying down on the desk next to Harris and drawing him into his arms. The way Harris had responded, there was no way he’d tried that himself. Jamack had been the first and only person to touch Harris like that. The thought sent a thrill through his entire body. His erection was still throbbing, pressed against Harris’ skinny thigh, but he could wait for Harris to recover a little.

“How long are you going to be this smug?” Harris grunted when he could finally speak again.

“For the rest of our lives,” he sighed, grinning. “Forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> Jamack: Here it says that all red-eyed tree frogs are hopeless romantics! Whoops I tore that part but it’s true!


End file.
